Another part of it was dry, loose, newly-ploughed ground.

Still another part of it was a long stretch of low grape-vines, which were tanglesome and troublesome, and which we took to be brambles.

The Attic Plain, barring the grape-vines, was a barren, desolate, unpoetical waste--I wonder what it was in Greece's Age of Glory, five hundred years before Christ?
In the neighborhood of one o'clock in the morning, when we were heated with fast walking and parched with thirst, Denny exclaimed, "Why, these weeds are grape-vines!" and in five minutes we had a score of bunches of large, white, delicious grapes, and were reaching down for more when a dark shape rose mysteriously up out of the shadows beside us and said "Ho!" And so we left.
In ten minutes more we struck into a beautiful road, and unlike some others we had stumbled upon at intervals, it led in the right direction.
We followed it.

It was broad, and smooth, and white--handsome and in perfect repair, and shaded on both sides for a mile or so with single ranks of trees, and also with luxuriant vineyards.

Twice we entered and stole grapes, and the second time somebody shouted at us from some invisible place.